


THE HIT

by BellaGracie



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Jealousy, TV Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 16:52:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15800682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaGracie/pseuds/BellaGracie
Summary: Point of view: KatnissPeeta's the star of a hit television cop show. Katniss hates it.





	THE HIT

**Author's Note:**

> Definitely a one-shot.

He's the star of the most sensational new show on television. It's about two detectives who have the hots for each other. Despite that, Vulture has praised the show for having a -- go figure -- feminist slant.

There's a fair amount of lurid plot: every week a woman gets murdered in some hideous way. Then Peeta and Clove spend the next hour relentlessly tracking down the perps. It's about rapists and serial killers and sex traffickers. About creepy physical trainers and creepy fathers and sadistic CEOs.

The suspects -- of both genders -- flirt outrageously with Peeta while he interrogates them. Then he rips their lame alibis to shreds.

Every episode ends with Peeta telling the perps: "Oh, you're gonna do time. A lot of time."

I usually am pretty good at ignoring the chatter in Buzzfeed and People. Every night, when Peeta comes home from a long day of shooting, I tell him what a moral cesspool the show is, how it objectifies women.

Since Peeta's playing an undercover detective, the costume department rigs him up in extremely tight, low-slung blue jeans and deep V-neck T-shirts. Clove, who plays his partner, wears tank tops that always manage to ride up, the better to show off her tight midriff. I've asked him time and time again why he can't just be the normal kind of detective, the one that wears neckties and button-down shirts. Why can't they set an episode in the opera -- Peeta looks great in tuxedos.

"How do they expect any detective to get away with such unprofessional attire."

Peeta laughs off my comments and kisses me deeply. He tells me he feels funny that he's famous for his torso.

"So unreal," I huff. "You always get the perp in the last five minutes of every episode."

Don, the show's creator and showrunner, has been very kind to me. He has to be. I'm letting him have full use of my husband's body week after week. And the show's a massive hit. In just six episodes, it's gotten the kind of ratings that Game of Thrones can only dream of.

One night, Peeta takes my hand and says, "I have to warn you about this next episode."

I'm uncomfortable, immediately. "What about the next episode?"

Peeta sighs. "Do you really want me to spell it out . . . "

I wait. He says, "They've decided that my partner and I should throw caution to the winds and get into bed with each other. You know it was building to this."

It's not that I don't trust him, but he's a flesh-and-blood man, and viewers tweet endlessly about the unrelieved sexual tension between him and Clove.

I hate it.

"Oh yeah," I say bitterly. "What kind of show would it be if all we got was scenes of detectives complaining about crappy station-house coffee, or looking at thousands of mug shots."

He always showers before leaving set. It's a kindness to me. He doesn't want me to have to smell her on his skin after.

"I know it's a dumb show," he murmurs.

"So how exactly does it go down?" I ask. I'm such a glutton for punishment.

"I go to her apartment in the middle of the night to tell her about some developments in the case."

"And she answers the door in a flimsy nightgown," I say.

"You know it's just a show."

"Then show me what's real," I say.

The show will have a second season, it's almost guaranteed. I think: this is not what I signed up for, when he said he was cast. Of course, now, we can afford so many more things. We could even, if we wanted, have a baby; he gets paid enough so that I can hire a nanny. Two nannies. I could still work on my book.

He climbs on top of me. He's ready, of course. So am I. For two sweet hours, it's just about me and Peeta. I am able to block out the TV, the gossip, the awful anxiety. There's nothing at all in the room except the sound of our bodies slamming against each other. My legs curl around his hips. He calls out my name, over and over. I hold on tight, waiting.


End file.
